7. Nick
NICK
T he next three days are rough. I tell myself it’s because I’m mentally preparing for class to start, but I know that’s not it. I’ve never been this unsettled at the start of the semester before.
And it doesn’t explain why my mind constantly drifts to Zinnia.
By Sunday night, I’m a wreck. I’ve hardly slept in days, barely touched the syllabus, and put in far too many hours at the faculty gym, including this evening.
I kick off my sneakers by the front door, too agitated to put them on the shoe rack where they belong, and glance around my apartment—a one-bedroom, second-floor walk-up in a redbrick building on Cornelia Street, just minutes from campus. Home for the last decade and a half.
Tossing my gym bag onto the sofa, I pull a bottle of water from the fridge and down it in one long swallow. It’s been a scorching hot July day, not helped one bit by the woman taunting me in my head.
My gaze lands on my sketchbooks, tucked under the coffee table. I don’t know why I pulled them out last week. I shouldn’t have. Even now, my fingers itch to pick them up, to get Zinnia’s endless curves on paper.
To get them out of my head.
I push the thought away and stride to the bathroom, stripping and stepping under the warm spray of the shower.
I don’t draw. It’s not who I am anymore.
My carefully organized life revolves around appreciating art from the outside, examining it, explaining it.
The creative process is chaotic, and I don’t do chaos. I don’t do mess, or unpredictability.
Which is why I stay the hell away from women.
Moving on autopilot, I soap myself, muscles still burning from my workout.
I was hoping it would help to clear my head for the start of class tomorrow, to exhaust me so I could fall into bed and sleep soundly tonight, but it’s had the opposite effect.
I feel more muddled, more on edge than ever, and it’s pissing me off.
Bracing one arm against the shower wall, I force the air from my lungs and stare at the tiles. Water falls in rivulets through my hair, down my forehead and into my eyes, blurring my vision. God, I wish I could do that to my brain. Wish I could erase the image of her.
She appears in my mind for the thousandth time, draped across that chair, acres of milky-white skin.
Every inch of her so smooth, so soft. And on Thursday, when I realized she’d removed her bra…
Shit, I nearly lost my mind. It’s not about her breasts, though they’re stunning, with their full, round globes and rosebud-pink nipples.
No, it was about the burning look in her eye.
The way her gaze followed me around the studio, daring me to look at her.
And fuck, I wanted to.
As much as I tell myself I see her only through an art historian’s eyes—her lush curves, her porcelain skin, the perfect proportions of her waist and her hips—I can’t deny it’s more than that.
Christ, what’s wrong with me? Why can’t I stop thinking about her? I’ve only met her three times—twice, if you count Thursday as one.
Get a grip.
I turn the shower temperature to cold, but my mind strays to her smile in the coffee shop, the way she used “contrapposto” correctly to describe David , as if she’d done her research. As if she’d wanted to impress me.
I rinse off under the cool water, intending to step from the shower, but when my fingers brush my stiff cock, I curse.
I can’t remember the last time I was this hard.
Shit, I can’t remember the last time I even jacked off.
It’s not something I indulge in often, because I’m normally far more in control.
There’s something about Zinnia that dismantles that control, and I don’t like it.
But as I scowl at my erection, willing it to go away, I know I’ve lost this battle.
My hand circles my shaft, hot and throbbing under the cool spray. It’s been far too long. The body has needs, and if I allow myself this moment of weakness, life can go back to normal.
I think of Zinnia as I stroke. The way she spoke about David with such insight, really understanding what Michelangelo achieved. And God, her word choice was uncanny: tense and coiled . That’s how I’ve felt for days, and it needs a release.
I brace a hand against the wall again, pulse quickening as I recall Zinnia in the studio, brazenly baring herself. Because it felt brazen. She did it on purpose, didn’t she? To taunt me. To tempt me. To make me crack.
And I was stupid enough to touch her, for God’s sake.
It’s funny how we can rationalize irrational things in the moment.
I knew better than to go anywhere near her, but some dangerous, reckless part of me took hold.
That’s the only explanation for how I let myself get closer.
Let my fingers brush her skin, just enough to feel the heat of her.
Let myself inhale her scent, a combination of something floral and soft and warm.
Goddammit .
My jaw hardens as I pump my fist harder, needing this to be over. There’s no denying she’s beautiful, but I shouldn’t have looked. I know better than to lose control. And even if that weren’t true, she’s a good decade younger than me. The model for our life-drawing class. And far too tempting.
But that doesn’t stop me from remembering the way goosebumps rushed over her skin when I touched her. The way her tongue slid out to moisten her full pink lips, her eyes searing into mine.
It’s enough to get me there, and I hang my head as my release rushes through me, spilling onto the tiles. I rinse off, waiting for my heartbeat to return to normal, a strange cocktail of emotions swirling through me. My face is hot as I reach for my towel, uncomfortable and ashamed.
Jesus Christ, why the hell did I do that? I don’t feel a lick of satisfaction. If anything, I feel worse, and I still haven’t gotten any work done. This is why I don’t indulge desire. It makes me sloppy.
Padding into my room, I pull on my sweatpants and slide on my glasses. I have to get my life back on track, and I know what I need to do. I need to quit the life-drawing classes.
And I need to stay the fuck away from Zinnia.
There’s a buzz in the air when I walk onto campus the following day.
Even though it’s noticeably quieter during the summer, there’s still that hum of anticipation, that first-day-of-class feeling.
Paradoxically, after last night’s moment of weakness, I feel stronger.
Now that I have a plan, I’m overcome by an odd sense of relief.
But I can’t leave June high and dry, no matter how desperate I am.
As I enter the Silver Center building and head toward my office on the third floor, I resolve to teach one more class tomorrow evening, then pull June aside and tell her that I have too many commitments at the university. I’m sure she’ll understand.
And I can go back to life the way it was before Zinnia.
I’m reinvigorated, using the morning to go over the syllabus one last time before class after lunch.
By the time I walk into the small lecture hall, I’m back in control.
It’s almost laughable that I let myself get so worked up over a woman.
That’s never happened before, and now I can see it for what it was.
Nothing more than a moment of temporary insanity.
I look around the lecture hall, exhaling slowly as it fills with students. This is my world. Academia. The realm of intellect, reason, logic. Not passion. Not emotion.
Not jacking off in the shower thinking of a woman I barely know.
“Alright, find a seat, everyone,” I say, plugging in my laptop and switching on the projector.
I fasten the front button on my tweed jacket and smooth a hand down my tie as I wait for the rustling of bags, laptops, and textbooks to settle.
“Welcome to Renaissance Art History: Italy & Europe . I’m Professor Sweetman. ”
Turning to the screen, I motion to the first slide. “Over the next six weeks, we’ll cover everything from Giotto to Titian. There’s a lot to stay on top of, so be sure to attend all lectures and take thorough notes.”
A hand shoots up in the tiered seating. “Professor Sweetman?”
“Yes?” I ask, already sensing what the question will be.
“Will you put your lectures online in case we can’t make class?”
I heave out a breath. It’s the same every time, students wanting to consume class material passively, as if I can condense the world’s greatest works of art down to a handful of TikToks they can scroll through while watching Netflix.
I bite my tongue to stop myself from saying what I really want to say: Show up or don’t bother .
“No,” I say crisply. “Art needs to be experienced. If you want to succeed in this class, you need to be here.”
The student huffs in outrage. “But…” he begins to protest, and I shake my head.
“No buts.” It’s important to set the tone for classes early, or things will unravel later.
“I only want you in here if you’re serious,” I tell him, motioning to the glowing green exit sign to my left.
“Otherwise, there’s the door.” He stares at me in disbelief, and I turn back to the screen when a chuckle draws my attention.
Great, another joker.
Honestly, these kids have picked the wrong day to test me. I’m finally back on steady ground after the last few days, and I won’t let anyone mess with that.
I push my glasses up my nose and turn impatiently, scanning the class. My gaze lands on dark bangs and a far too familiar grin.
Zinnia.
I freeze. What is she doing here?
Her grin widens as our eyes meet, and I have the fleeting thought that she signed up for this class— my class—on purpose, then dismiss it. It makes sense she’d be here, given her love of art.
The very thing that drew me to her.
I shake that thought off even quicker, because shit. Shit . She’s my student.
Last night flashes through my mind in fragments, my fist wrapped around myself as I pictured her sultry eyes following me around the studio, as I replayed that smile when she spoke about Italy.
As I let myself think of her to get off.
Jesus Christ.
Heat sweeps up the back of my neck, and I tug at the collar of my shirt, turning away. I reach for the class roster I printed this morning, eyes scanning over the list to confirm, as if I’m imagining Zinnia sitting in my lecture hall.
But, no, she’s there, in black and white. My student.
Zinnia Sinclair .
Fuck.